Don't Leave
by ForeverMATT
Summary: Another trip to the bar. Another drink. Another trip to the bathroom. Another... who dafuq is that? On the floor... there's somebody familiar. - OneShot


**Title:** Don't Leave

**Summary:** Another trip to the bar. Another drink. Another trip to the bathroom. Another... who dafuq is that? On the floor... there's somebody familiar.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note:** I have no idea what brought this up. It might not even make sense. This is literally just bullshit from my brain. No direction, no thinking or planning. Just bullshit and my fingers on a keyboard.

…

* * *

Entering this place does nothing for me like it used to. Used to be, I walk in and get this sly sense of satisfaction, knowing that I'm obtaining liquor and I'm underage. Used to be, I walk in and every lowlife in town is checking out my ass and sniffing my hair. Used to be, I walk in, get plastered, have a round of nasty and unprotected sex with some nobody, and go home satisfied.

Now, I don't even know what I'm doing here. I don't even want to be here. But it's a slow day back at headquarters, and I'm not ready to go home to an empty apartment.

So, here I am.

This place, it's called RED. The logo is a two-toned abstract version of what appears to be a woman's face. A second glance reveals red horns, red lips, and... somewhere between the horns and lips is a pair of venom-red eyes.

The interior of this bar is fantastic. Black marble counter tops and tacky red leather seats and booths every which and way. Every shot glass and mug is a translucent blue, and the lighting in here is so dim and hazed with smoke...

It's comforting.

Coming in for the first time, some people choke on the atmosphere, their eyes burning and nose scrunching.

-I come in and take a seat on a stool. I am given my usual drink without having to ask or pay. I chug it down and sit back, facing the crowd, arms draped behind me over the counter, taking up more space than necessary.

Because I'm hot shit. Always. Everyone knows, suspects, or gets a bullet in the skull.

Yeah, that's how I roll.

Bang bang, and walk away. Sometimes holding a smoking gun, other times lacing my pants and trying not to see double of everything.

But tonight's different. I'm actually sober; there is no toxin taking over my mind and playing puppeteer to my body.

Still, when another drink is passed my way, I gulp it down without a second thought. Then I listen to the humdrum of dumbfuck fuckery around me.

People. Talking and laughing. Glasses clinking. Promises being traded in the form of kisses and naughty touches. Billiards, pool sticks hitting balls that hit other balls before sinking them into pockets. Lies being told for self-gain. Music mixing into the blur of sound. And suddenly... a scream.

A loud, shrill scream.

Not entirely interested, I spare a glance at the owner of the voice. He's a young Japanese man, dark hair and large puppy eyes. He looks young, but he's easily older than me. He's a shaking mess as he clings to anyone and everyone around him, finally managing the words: "Bathroom! Unconscious! Help!"

But nobody listens to him. Nobody cares. And fuck, I don't care either.

I turn my attention to the bartender and, before I can even ask, another drink is in my hands. I don't chug this one; I sip on it.

And without myself even bothering to ask, the bartender nods to the frantic Japanese man and says: "That's Matsuda. He panics regularly, so most people don't take him too seriously... but he's the third man to mention that there's an unconscious person in the bathroom. -Mello, did you kill-"

"No," the answer leaves my mouth faster than it should have. But I'm innocent this time, I swear. And I'm pissed that someone thought otherwise, even if the assumption is easily justified.

… I don't even have to look to know that the bartender doesn't believe me. He turns away and takes money from this person and that, handing out drinks and playing the role of a caring individual, acting like the nicest guy and taking in every penny he can from these suckers.

But he won't get a penny from me. I know his game.

-After finishing my third drink, I chance a trip to the bathroom- not to check on the Japanese man's claim, but to actually take a piss.

So, I get up and go. I push my way through groups of people and head to the bathroom, and... upon entering, a sight stops me dead in my tracks.

_Red_.

A shock of red locks splayed across the linoleum floor. The owner of said locks is pale, skin almost grey against the filthy tile. This man, as previously stated, is unconscious, but he's also naked.

Normally, I'd just walk right over the fucker, assuming he drank himself into this state, but... the bruises on his body and the blood -_more red_- suggest otherwise.

I'm not sympathetic or empathetic. I don't even pity the fool, but... my eyes are drawn to him. I can't look away.

Maybe it's the alcohol- yeah, that's it.

But my body seems to move on its own accord until I am by this man's side, kneeling, and pulling him into my arms. His head lolls and I see that he has taken a blow to the head; blood is at his temple and one of his eyes is swollen shut.

-I don't get to take my sought-after piss.

Instead, I just get up and carry this redhead out.

This isn't something I normally do. I don't give a shit about people. So... why is this idiot any different?

…

So, I get this guy home, and I put him on the couch, covering him with a blanket, and I sit across from him.

I stare at him.

That red hair... is so familiar. I find myself smiling. I know it's not the alcohol clearing my inhibitions, but... I wish it was. Because memories flood me, fast and hard like rape in a Catholic church.

Memories. Thoughts and emotions bubbling, about the past. About a friend I had...

The _only_ friend I've ever had.

A boy with red hair, a blindly naive disposition, and... my heart. -Yeah, I had a heart once, and I left it behind, in the anxious hands of a lazy gamer named Mail Jeevas. But that boy, he's so far away, so many years behind.

But I don't want to dwell on that.

This redhead has nothing to do with the redhead I knew. Even if he has that same hair color, same haircut, same... birthmark on his shoulder.

_Fuck_.

-And suddenly, for the first time in years, I can feel my heart beating, strong.

I almost think it's due to anxiety, but that's not quite it.

And then he stirs, one eye opening as he sits up, the blanket pooling in his lap. He looks at me, and the sight of that one eye takes my breath.

"Mail?" I ask, though it comes out as no more than a whisper.

And, looking at me, he shakes his head. "Come again?"

"Mail Jeevas, that's your name," I say, a bit more confidently as I get a better look at him.

But he frowns, almost looking at me like I've grown a second head before saying: "no, my name's Matt... Can you tell me where I am?"

I don't answer him. I get up and walk away, not saying a word.

What could I have said anyways?

And he doesn't say anything.

I just stand there, several feet away from him, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, trying to give that badass impression I'm known for. And he sits there, quiet and naked, save for the blanket in his lap. And then he looks at me, forcing his swollen eye open and giving me the brightest smile. And he says: "Can I borrow some clothes? I haven't any money, but I'll pay ya back."

And then he winks.

And my stomach twists in angry knots. Because this redhead... is a poser. He's not my friend from long ago. He's someone else.

He's someone I shouldn't have taken home.

Looking away from his impossibly green eyes, I say: "You can leave whenever. Lock the door on your way out. I have nothing worth stealing, so don't bother if you're a klepto." And then I walk away, heading to my room for the night.

…

Morning comes, and I awake without a hangover for the first time in a long time. Then I exit my room, only to find that the redhead... is still here.

"I told you to leave," I say... because I _did _tell him to leave.

He shakes his head, smiling. "You said I could leave whenever. So, I waited. I wanted to see you in the morning. See if your eyes are still impossibly blue and if your hair looked good mussed from bedhead. I wanted to see... if...-" And he doesn't finish. His smile leaves and his bright eyes take on a gloomy tint, dimming like a dying light bulb. Then, with crestfallen demeanor, he whispers: "I can take a hint. Lend me some pants, and I'm gone."

-I don't give him pants. Again, I say: "Lock the door on your way out," and I leave.

I leave my apartment and I leave _him_.

I leave him _in_ my apartment.

I go out. I get something to eat at a mediocre diner. Then I buy some more chocolate and head home.

I walk in and see that he's still here. Still naked, save for the blanket tied around his waist like a skirt. His red, red hair is bright as it is illuminated by the television. His eyes are glued to the screen and his fingers are thumbing over the input/output ports.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demand, my voice more harsh than I initially intend.

But he's not startled, surprisingly. He's still aptly focused on the screen and the ports. And he says: "Something is supposed to go here." He taps at the ports. "And I'm supposed to watch this." He points at the screen, pressing his cheek to it and nuzzling affectionately.

"What are you getting at?"

"A game... I played a game. On a tv like this. Before..."

"Before-? Matt... what the fuck are you going on about?"

"Before I got hurt. Before my head stopped working. Before I stopped knowing..."

And suddenly, everything was clear. I took a deep breath and approached him. "Tell me what's going on. -I don't care about you, so don't get the wrong idea, Matt... but I care about someone. And what you say might relate to him."

And he opens his mouth, and I listen.

"I-I don't know what happened. People say I was smart. They say all kinds of things. They say I was valuable. But... my head..." He placed a hand on his head. "Hurts. Can't remember."

I almost hurt at what he's implying.

Then... "But this..." He points to the tv, eyes wide with wonder. "This makes me feel... like I know stuff, like it has something to do with who I am. Maybe... I was on tv? Or I watched tv? -What else does one do with a tv?" And he looks at me with pleading eyes.

And I answer... "You play games, Mail."

"Why do you call me that?"

"Because that's your name. And I withdraw what I said earlier. I don't want you leaving."

"But... I don't know you... Do you know me?"

Hearing this redhead ask, seeing his hair and his naive and earnest expression, dotted with bruises, I can't bring myself to be upfront with an answer. Instead, I say three words. "Just... don't leave."

…

* * *

**/...I have no idea what brought this on./**


End file.
